


A view to the past

by EssentiallyAwful



Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: Child Abuse, Diary type, Gory as fuck, I feel sorry for Jeremiah, I'm trying, Jerome is a crazy bean, No Smut, Other, PTSD, Physical Abuse, Psychological Trauma, Torture, lots of gore, mention of animal torture, poor Bruce is scared, traumatic shit
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-01
Updated: 2020-05-10
Packaged: 2021-03-01 17:47:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 862
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23951062
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EssentiallyAwful/pseuds/EssentiallyAwful
Summary: A diary inspired glance at the life of Jerome Valeska, from childhood to death. Well, secind<3 ~ EssentiallyAwful
Comments: 1
Kudos: 4





	1. I

Once upon a time Jerome had been a child, a child like any other. Sweet, innocent, sadistic. A perfect little sociopath. Not unlike most, he had a temper. A temper that flared whenever his mother shouted, or his brother treated him as an inferior. It hurt, and like most children, Jerome didn’t know how to manage that hurt. He’d tried to channel it into art, like his brother did, but it didn’t stick. He’d tried sports. Not his thing either. As a last attempt he’d tried something absolutely sinister. He’d gone to the Lloyd’s tent, found their precious cat, Whiskers (stupid fucking name) and taken him outside. He’d gone up a hill, and sat down with the cat, then with his bare hands. Snapped his neck. 

He’d been six years old, when his brother had started to become cold towards him. The rest of the circus had never found the cat. His brother had. A week after he’d killed the cretin, his brother had stopped talking to him completely. And dear god had it hurt. It had hurt bad enough that Jerome’s usual little pranks had begun to elevate, going from little things like putting gum in his hair, to setting his bed on fire. He’d never intended for his brother to get hurt. He just wanted to be acknowledged, and sure enough he was.

The only time their mother had hurt him in front of his brother had been the day she found Jerome chasing his little brother with a knife. A hard slap across the face. It had stung. His lip had been cut, it had bled for what felt like hours. Turns out it was only ten minutes. But being thrown into the caravan and not allowed outside for the rest of the day had been traumatic for the six year old sociopath. 

Everyone had calmed down by the evening. Everything had been normal that night. They’d eaten dinner at the little table, in the little kitchen. They’d washed their dishes and brushed their teeth. Then they’d all gone to sleep. Just like normal.

When Jerome woke up the day after he’d been alone in the small bedroom. His brother nowhere to be found. It had hurt so terribly to find out that he’d been taken away. Because of him. Because of what he’d done. It made him cry, it made him angry, it made him furious. And every time he couldn’t hold his feelings in check, he got beaten. Every time he said something out of line, he got beaten. Every time it happened, a little part of the once happy-ish child died.


	2. II

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A very short take, I just need to post this so I can get some more done, maybe I'll edit it if I can add more to it.

Jerome was 12 now, it had been 6 years since his brother had been taken away, shipped off to some fancy private school. Or so he’d been told. His mother beat him relentlessly, so did her lovers. He was a joke to them, a joke to be thrown out and beaten bloody. 

One day he’d found a stray cat. He’d thought about it. Thought about doing what he’d done that day, thought about his brother. But instead, he’d strangled a kid his own age, gotten beat up by the kids cousin and had to walk home, in the cold October breeze, in torn clothes. Yet another day where he’d never hear the end of it.

“You ruined your clothes again?! HOW DARE YOU??!! HAVE YOU GOT ANY IDEA HOW HARD I WORK TO KEEP YOU ALIVE?!” Was the typical response he’d get from his mother. Great, another one of those was sure to come at him when he came home.

This did however, not happen. As his mother hadn’t been there when he’d gotten back. She hadn’t even left a note to tell him if or when she’d come back. Fucking— 

No! He wouldn’t let her get to him like that. He could even fix his clothes before she came back, knowing she’d most likely never return until long after dawn. Right, he could wash and fix them before then. After all it was only six in the evening. He could definitely do all of that before dawn.

— He’d fucked up. Last night after washing his clothes, he’d been drying them but…. The hell bitch had come home early, and seen the damage. She’d completely lost it in a fit of drunken rage. She’d grabbed him by the back of his head and slammed his face into the table. Shouted at him for what had felt like hours and thrown him into a counter several times. 

This had been the first time she’d ever gone for his head, it had been such a shock. He’d never seen it coming. When he woke up with blood all over his pillow.. well he’d been rightfully surprised, not remembering much of the night before. Nevermind. The throbbing pain in his nose gave him the run down of the situation. Broken, bruised and covered in dried crusted blood. Eugh.

He’d gone to the bathroom to try and clean up but it had been locked. His mom probably in there puking up whatever was left of last nights adventure.

Jerome was 12 years old. And already he wanted to die.


End file.
